


In The Shadow Of A Different Dawn

by euphowolf



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, F/F, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26149699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphowolf/pseuds/euphowolf
Summary: She cannot say for sure that she is doing the right thing. In truth, she has no idea what the “right thing” really is, if such a thing exists at all. She has only ever tried to tread along the path of least bloodshed and hope that is enough. In the past, when the world was simpler and not yet at war with itself, it used to be. Now, her conclusions are ambiguous.-A Crimson Flower AU in which Byleth is actually a spy for the Church.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 21
Kudos: 35





	In The Shadow Of A Different Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-imagining and amalgamation of the various routes in Fire Emblem Three Houses. It is meant to follow canon as closely as possible while telling a completely new story; as such, several scenes and lines of dialogue are taken directly from the game. The scenes are purposely presented in a non-linear format, with some taking place pre-timeskip and others taking place after. For those who may be confused by the order of events, I have provided a brief timeline in the end notes.

**Garreg Mach at night is a sentinel of stone.**

During the day, it bustles with life. Here, the boisterous market, with merchants clamoring for customers to peruse their wares. Here, the penitents and the robed monks, their hands clasped as they murmur in prayer. Here, the clanging of sword upon shield as would-be soldiers practice the deliverance of death. 

When night falls, however, silence overtakes the ancient monastery. The sun sinks below the horizon and residents retire to sleep or scheme in their beds, leaving only the impassive walls and cobbled hallways to observe the secrets unfolding within. 

Byleth Eisner - professor, master tactician, wielder of the Crest of Flames - has one of those secrets concealed in the pockets of her robes now. She sweeps up the moonlit steps at a careful, measured pace, not wanting to seem hurried or anxious. The guards on patrol are no strangers to her midnight walks, but she cannot risk drawing attention to herself now. They snap into a salute as she passes, which she acknowledges with a dip of her head.

Her trail meanders through the gardens and courtyards, as if she has no particular destination. Several times she nears the north gate, but she still does not approach the figure standing at the entrance. Time is not the issue at hand, and a bit of caution goes a long way.

Finally, some latent instinct tells her that it is safe to proceed. On her third pass, she cuts an abrupt diagonal and ducks into the shadows of the tower. The guard she’s been looking for nods at her.

“Do you have it?” His voice is barely above a murmur. 

She removes the thin scroll from her coat and passes it to him. He tucks it away out of sight immediately, and Byleth doesn’t even wait for him to straighten up before she’s already moving away, putting distance between them. Any casual onlooker may not have noticed their interaction at all.

The guard is just a messenger. The scroll will leave his hands in the morning and be deposited into the bag of an unwitting courier, who will take it into a nearby town. An agent disguised as a merchant in the town will collect the letter and take it to its true recipient.

The contents of the letter are simple, once the cypher is decrypted. They detail, in Byleth’s neat hand, the planned movements of the Adrestian Empire for the upcoming battle in two weeks’ time. The number of troops and artillery, formations, and defensive strategies in case of ambush or possible defeat are all laid out. 

In any capable commander’s hands, it is a key to clear victory. And the Church has many such hands.

The deed done, Byleth picks her way back to her chambers. The monastery is a large place, and she has plenty of time for thinking as she walks. 

She cannot say for sure that she is doing the right thing. In truth, she has no idea what the “right thing” really _is_ , if such a thing exists at all. She has only ever tried to tread along the path of least bloodshed and hope that is enough. In the past, when the world was simpler and not yet at war with itself, it used to be. Now, her conclusions are ambiguous.

She reaches the door to her room, but pauses even as her fingers close around the handle. She swivels and looks behind her at the monastery’s central building. Her eyes find the terrace on the third story, behind which lies the room that the Archbishop would normally reside in. 

The Archbishop, of course, is not here. Someone else slumbers there, and it’s to her that Byleth addresses her thoughts now.

 _El_ , she wonders, _will you forgive me when you know what I have done? What I am doing?_

She already knows the answer to that question. With a sigh, Byleth slips back into her rooms. 

The night grows still. The lights go out, one by one. Even the most restless men and women toss and turn themselves to sleep. 

But the walls of Garreg Mach continue to keep watch. 

**Garreg Mach in bloom is an ideal place for a nap.** Byleth luxuriates in the warmth of the sun’s rays on her face, enjoying the way the blades of grass beneath her tickle at her thighs. There is a soporific quality to the air today, and she has no doubt that others besides herself have already fallen prey to it. Besides, it’s her day off. No one will begrudge her a light doze.

“There you are, Professor.” A shadow falls across her closed eyelids, and she reluctantly opens them to see who is denying her her well-earned rest. Violet eyes blink back at her. “I know it’s the weekend, but surely there must be a better place for you to sleep.”

Byleth sits up. Edelgard von Hresvelg, future ruler of the Empire, stands there with her arms crossed. Despite the sunny weather, she has on her usual uniform, all black and austere in the style of the Adrestian military. The perspiration dotting her forehead does not detract from her imposing figure. 

Byleth shrugs at her and splays her hands on the lawn. “I like the garden.”

Edelgard jerks her head left and right to take in the rose bushes surrounding them. At this time of the year, most of the flowers are starting to bud, their sweet perfume pervading the atmosphere. She gives a curt nod, as if confirming something.

“Yes… It is rather idyllic, I suppose,” she says and, to Byleth’s mild surprise, gingerly lowers herself to the ground next to her. Clearly unused to such a position, she folds her knees under her and sits upon her haunches, her back rigid and ramrod straight.

Byleth studies Edelgard’s face. Edelgard stares steadily back at her. 

It’s only been a week since Byleth has taken up this teaching job, and while she’s proved adept at conducting classes, she’s yet to become particularly familiar with her students. Even so, it is nigh impossible to not take notice of Edelgard, who tackles all her subjects with a hungry and grim determination. Byleth, by her own admission, is severely lacking in social awareness, but in the short amount of time she’s spent with the princess, she has learned a bit about her. 

She’s serious. She’s driven. She’s talented, bordering on arrogant. She hates to lose, and so rarely does. Most importantly, her actions are never wasteful, which means that if she’s here, she must have some business with Byleth.

“Did you need me for something?”

“Yes,” is Edelgard’s immediate response, and then, “Well, no. It’s nothing terribly important.” Byleth raises her eyebrows, and Edelgard presses on hurriedly. “I just never got to properly thank you. For helping us against the bandits.”

Byleth is puzzled for a moment, then realizes she’s referring to their first meeting. The swing of an axe and the voice of a green-haired girl flickers across her memory. 

“I thought you did, right after the battle.” She has a vague recollection of the three royal youths she and her father had saved crowding around her, clamoring for her allegiance.

Edelgard fidgets with the stalk of a dandelion. “My peers and I were a little… overzealous at the time. I was worried that my feelings of gratitude were not properly expressed. That’s why I’m here now.” She thinks a bit more, then adds, “I could’ve handled it myself, of course. That bandit was a slow brute. But still, you put yourself in harm’s way for me, a stranger. I am indebted.”

Byleth cannot help but be amused at her overly formal and stiff tone. “You’re welcome, Edelgard.”

At these simple words, Edelgard’s shoulders lower a fraction. She shifts into a more comfortable position on the grass as she continues in a warmer voice. 

“You are a good teacher. The others had their doubts, and some of them still do, but I think the Black Eagles will thrive under your tutelage. You have an… uncanny way of keeping your students’ attention.” Byleth wonders if she’s only imagining the delicate and almost invisible flush that creeps into her cheeks. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad you are leading our class.”

Byleth smiles, her lips twisting against the unpracticed motion. Edelgard’s eyes widen a little at the sight. Byleth stands abruptly and, as the other girl watches, walks over to one of the nearby bushes and plucks one of the red roses, most of which are near full bloom, from its perch. Returning, she stoops and offers it to a bewildered Edelgard.

“P-Professor?” For once, the princess’ cool demeanor seems shaken. 

“You should relax more often,” is all Byleth says. 

Speechless, Edelgard accepts the gift, rising to her feet as well. She examines it, as if expecting it to explode in her hands. Byleth’s grin stretches further, even as Edelgard frowns.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you smile,” the young noble remarks. 

“Do you like it?”

“Your smile?” Then she understands the question, and this time, she definitely blushes. “Oh. The rose. Yes. It’s… very nice.”

They both admire it for several seconds. Edelgard gives a little shake of her head. 

“I’ll… let you get back to your nap, Professor. Thank you for speaking with me.” She bites her lower lip. “And… for the gift.”

Byleth nods at her, and Edelgard turns to leave. Before she takes another step, however, she pauses and looks over her shoulder.

“I look forward to your guidance for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.” There is a flash of her perfect, white teeth. “The others won’t know what hit them.” 

She whirls, her cape flapping up behind her, and walks away, still clutching the rose with both her hands. Byleth watches until she’s out of sight, then drops back down to the grass. She reclines her body, folding her arms behind her head. A single cloud hangs in the blue and endless sky. 

_My goodness, you have the conversational skills of a wooden spoon_ , Sothis grumbles sleepily in her ear, but Byleth ignores her and closes her eyes with a satisfied air. 

All things considered, she feels that she's actually done quite well. 

**Garreg Mach in ruins is like the melancholy skeleton of some great beast.** Byleth surveys it in dismay; even from this distance, she can make out the collapsed chapel and the smashed towers. It feels wrong to see it like this, all hollowed out and broken. 

From across the table, Rhea clears her throat. “Terrible, isn’t it?” She’s followed Byleth’s line of sight to the monastery. “A place of so much history and culture. I shudder to think of the damage that wretched child has done.”

Byleth tears her eyes away from the wreck. She decides not to point out that the Archbishop is at least partially responsible. Instead, she says simply, “Buildings can be rebuilt.”

Rhea raises one brow. She does not deign to answer and instead lifts the teacup to her lips. 

“I must confess,” she muses, after a moment of silence, “I did not expect for you to return to my side. I know that you and Edelgard were… close.”

Byleth flexes the fist in her lap. She doesn’t care for the way Edelgard’s name fits in the Archbishop’s mouth. 

“Edelgard has noble intentions,” she explains, ignoring the way Rhea sniffs skeptically, “but she will stop at nothing to carry them out.” The cavity where her heart should be reverberates with pain at the admission. “I’m afraid that her success will lead only to more needless deaths.”

“And so you come to me.” Rhea sets down the teacup and steeples her fingers. “To help the Church.”

“To help the nation.” 

The Archbishop regards her evenly, her face betraying nothing. 

"And what can you offer us?" she inquires loftily. "We have many soldiers, tacticians. It's true that you bear the Crest of Flames and the Sword of the Creator, but that only makes you more dangerous. In fact…" Her eyes narrow. "It may be more prudent to dispose of you now, rather than wait for you to turn on me again."

Byleth grimaces. Rhea has not forgiven her for going to Edelgard’s aid all those years ago, in the tombs beneath Garreg Mach. “I wasn’t going to stand by and watch you slaughter children. And now I’m here to set things right.” She meets Rhea’s stare without flinching. “As Sothis would have wanted.”

Rhea’s sharp intake of breath is so subtle that Byleth almost misses it. Just as when Byleth first showed up at the gates of this small stronghold at the edges of Charon, the other woman’s eyes flick over her, taking in her now-green hair and her verdant irises. She had not been entirely convinced by Byleth’s assertion at the time that Sothis was no longer a separate entity from her, but her physical changes are undeniable evidence.

Pensive, the Archbishop settles back in her chair. She is turning Byleth’s offer over in her head, searching for a foothold, for a way to take advantage.

“There is something you can do for me,” she says, when she finishes thinking. “Something only you can do.” 

“And what is that?”

Rhea gazes out at Garreg Mach once more. She traces the rim of her cup with a delicate fingernail, around and around.

“The Adrestian whelp trusted you. And she would trust you again.” Her expression is icy, her eyes suddenly cruel. “I want you to use that trust against her. Return to her, and get all the information you can. Wring her dry. Hit her where it hurts."

A dull anger pulses somewhere beneath Byleth’s stomach as she realizes what Rhea is saying. “You want me to betray her.”

Rhea shrugs and spreads her hands expressively. “Aren’t you already doing that by being here?” When Byleth is silent, she nods in apparent satisfaction. “You say you only seek peace. Well, we all must share the burden of unpleasant choices if we wish to achieve that peace. No one’s hands can remain clean in a war.”

“That’s something Edelgard might say as well.”

“Then you know that if our positions were reversed, she would do the same. You must see,” Rhea adds, as Byleth’s lips part in protest, “that an Adrestian victory will destroy Fodlan. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. You come to me in search of a way to end the war. And I’m telling you, this would be the quickest - and most bloodless - way to do it.”

Byleth’s jaw locks. Rhea’s words are difficult to swallow, but she can hear the truth in them. She searches for a crack in the other woman’s logic, trying to find a different path forward, but no matter how she approaches the problem, only one conclusion surfaces. 

“I won’t help you kill her.” It is a feeble act of rebellion, this ultimatum, but it is the only one she can make. 

Rhea looks unsurprised. “Even though it would end this farce immediately?” she asks.

Byleth shakes her head. “There’s no guarantee of that. I heard the talk among the people as I made my way here. Some see Edelgard as a tyrant, it’s true, but others view her as a savior and a symbol of hope. Killing her may only martyr her.”

“But as long as she lives, the fighting will not cease. You know that, long or short, this can only end in her death. Yet you insist on delaying the inevitable. Why?”

And here is the crux of the matter. Byleth leans in and makes her case.

“Edelgard can change. She loves Fodlan and its people as much as anyone. That’s the whole reason she’s even fighting the Church. So that no one has to suffer as she did.” _Like her siblings did_. “I can get close to her, like you want me to. I can make her see that what she’s doing is wrong. That there are other ways of righting the world.”

Of all the reactions she expects Rhea to have, it is not the faint amusement playing about the corners of her mouth. “Is that what you really believe? Perhaps you do not know her as well as I thought you did, after all.” Then, she gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “But, very well. I accept your terms. You are right that a premature death for her will only undermine the Church’s power. I will not ask you to kill her personally, nor smuggle in cutthroats to do the job for us. In return, you will report back on her every move. Agreed?” 

It's gone too smoothly. Even after five years of slumber, Byleth has not forgotten that Rhea would never acquiesce to a deal that didn't overwhelmingly benefit her. But it's too late to back out now, and besides, there's no other solution. She gives a quick jerk of her neck. 

"Agreed." 

They do not shake on it. Rhea smiles and stands, as if she has won some particularly irksome game of wits. 

"I'll have a horse prepared for you. You may depart for the monastery tomorrow. I'll have a messenger send word when your assistance is required. Until then, simply watch and wait."

Byleth gets up as well and takes her leave. The exchange has left her exhausted and drained, and she dreads the role she has been assigned. It is also, however, an opportunity. Perhaps she can affect more change this way. Perhaps she can get Edelgard to see reason.

She’s almost out the door when Rhea calls out to her once more.

“Byleth.”

When she turns around, the Archbishop seems to have lost some of her regality. Her face is just as unmarred by lines and wrinkles as always, but she still looks older, somehow. Her hand rests on the back of her chair, as if she would double over without the support.

“Is she… Is she really gone?” she asks softly, her voice impossibly ancient. 

Byleth does not need to ask who she’s referring to. She wavers for a moment, unsure of what to say, then answers honestly. “She bonded with my soul to save me. I can still feel her presence but… I can no longer hear her voice. I’m sorry.”

Rhea closes her eyes. Her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. When she speaks again, she is composed and contemptuous once more.

“That will be all. You may leave now.”

Byleth knows better than to linger. She exits the room, a heaviness in her stomach. As she walks down the stairs of the tower, she flexes her fingers absently, remembering Sothis’ last words to her. 

_Your will and mine are now as one_.

Is this what Sothis would have chosen? 

She does not know the answer. She can only press forward, and hope that Fodlan will not crumble from her actions.

 **Garreg Mach in the afternoon rings with the twittering of birds and tastes faintly of citrus.** Byleth sips at her cooling Bergamot as she lets Edelgard’s voice roll over her, savoring the rich flavor of the beverage. 

“When I am Emperor, things will be different,” Edelgard is saying. “So-called ‘commoners’ like Dorothea, minor royalty with no Crests or inheritance like Caspar, political hostages like Petra - they will all have a real chance, not just the bones and scraps the nobles deign to throw at them.”

Byleth has heard this several times before, so she just nods. The dismantling of classes and hierarchy is a favorite topic of Edelgard’s, and it often comes up when they take tea together. Of late, they’ve gotten into the habit of sharing a pot after classes. Byleth discovered the princess’ favorite blend early on, and she takes a certain amount of satisfaction every time from seeing how much she enjoys it. Perhaps it’s because Edelgard so rarely indulges herself.

“You can see it too, can’t you, Professor?” Edelgard leans in, the long strands of her silver hair brushing against the table. “Miklan had no Crest, so his family callously disowned him. His actions were despicable, yes, but he was driven to desperation because of a society that judged him worthless. There can be no justice in such a world.”

Byleth gulps down the bite of cake in her mouth. “We have Crests,” she points out. “Some of your classmates as well.”

“The Crests aren’t the problem… Well, not really, anyway. It’s that they are coveted beyond reason. People without Crests are not the only ones who suffer. Just look at Bernadetta. Her father saw her as no more than a bargaining chip, a way to gain power and status. We are all bound by the Crest system. I wish to set us free.”

Byleth cocks her head. Edelgard’s passion for her cause is admirable, but it isn’t something that Byleth quite understands. When Edelgard speaks like this, she does not sound like a well-meaning noble taking pity on the less fortunate. It sounds personal. Yet, Byleth cannot see what could have set her down this path. She wields a Minor Crest of Seiros and is the sole heir to the Adrestian throne. By all rights, she stands only to gain from Fodlan’s current state.

Pure curiosity prompts Byleth to ask, “How are _you_ bound? Doesn’t the system benefit you?”

Instantly, she sees that she has made a mistake. A shadow falls across Edelgard’s features and she straightens in her chair, drawing away from Byleth. A chill settles in between them as the sun dips behind a cloud.

“That… isn’t a question I’m willing to answer right now,” Edelgard says. She rubs one gloved palm over her other wrist - a nervous tic that Byleth has recently begun to notice - and adds, her teeth bared in a near snarl, “But know that, if I’d had a choice, I would’ve given up this - this _curse_ at birth. I _will_ destroy the Crest system. Even if I have to do it with my own bare hands.”

Byleth is taken aback by the force of her sudden wrath. It must show on her face, because in the next second, Edelgard swallows and visibly forces anger down. She musters a small, unconvincing smile.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sour the mood. Come, let’s talk of more pleasant matters.”

They return to their tea and cake. After the initial tension, they sink back into an easy rhythm, and true to her word, Edelgard does not approach the subject again for the rest of the afternoon. Yet, the flash of grief and pain Byleth glimpsed in Edelgard’s expression never fully leaves her mind. There is more to the story, and Byleth has a feeling that sooner or later, she’ll find out what lies under that calm and composed mask the future Emperor of Adrestia wears. 

**Garreg Mach in darkness is a cavernous maw.** Alone in her room, Byleth shivers and keeps as close as she can to the light of the candle without burning herself. She’s exhausted beyond measure, and she can’t go on for more than a few minutes before images of the previous day flash across her mind. So many lives lost so unnecessarily, and what is there to show for it? A pile of rubble. An empty victory. 

Far away, the monastery’s ponderous bells ring three times to mark the hour. Right on cue, the nondescript brooch she had been fiddling with begins to glow. She sets it on the rough-grained table with no small amount of aching dread. It vibrates a little, then floats upward until it hovers at eye level, its light illuminating the desk, but not much further. 

A voice emits from the enchanted jewel. “Explain.” Of course Rhea would want to hear the report personally, after the disaster that had occurred.

Byleth does not need clarification. “She didn’t give the order. Her uncle acted on his own.”

“The entirety of Arianrhod has been destroyed. That is not a sufficient explanation.”

She takes a moment to collect her thoughts, remembering her shock and horror as she witnessed the fortress crumble like sand. “The Church’s forces were gaining the upper hand. It was supposed to be a safe operation. None of us were aware that Those Who Slither in the Dark would take matters into their own hands.”

“ _None_ of you?” Byleth does not need to see Rhea’s face to know it is twisted in scornful skepticism.

“Edelgard was distraught. We - They lost many of their own. She never would have approved the move. She’s already vowed to have her revenge.” 

“Oh? And I suppose she’s informed all her troops of this _unfortunate_ mistake and begged their forgiveness.”

Byleth closes her eyes. The truth is painful to admit aloud. “She claimed the Church had done it. She… She asked me to keep it a secret. No one knows what really happened.”

They are both silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. The candle flickers, making the shadows in the room dance. 

“Well,” Rhea says abruptly, “the truth will out. Do your best to spread the rumors where you can. Despite the losses, this may end up working in our favor.” Already, she is thinking of how to take advantage of the chaos. 

Byleth slumps her shoulders. “Understood,” she says, but Rhea isn’t finished.

“And I hope this serves as a wake-up call for you, child. How long do you intend to defend this insolent usurper?”

“She didn’t know-”

“If you really believe that, then you are a fool and a disappointment. Your Emperor joins hands with the filth, the vermin, the vile henchmen of Nemesis himself. She lies to even her allies and seeks to paint all of Fodlan with blood. And you still think she can be made to see reason?”

Byleth has no answer.

Rhea sighs through the communicator. “Continue observing as before. But be more vigilant. This cannot happen again.” There is a scraping sound as she presumably gets up from her chair. “You may think of her as your former student, but remember, she cannot be trusted. She is a dangerous tyrant. If you forget that, you may be the next one caught in the crossfire.” 

With a shudder, the spell ends and the brooch falls to the table. Byleth tucks it back into the folds of her robes absentmindedly. The light from the candle seems dimmer than before as she turns over Rhea’s last words in her mind. 

_She’s dangerous_.

It’s something that Byleth knows well. Despite all the setbacks caused by Byleth’s spying, Edelgard has still managed to drive Claude into exile and maintain control of Garreg Mach. She is strong, ruthless, and resolute. Anyone who stands in her way faces death.

Yet, when she pictures Edelgard, the image that appears is not of the conquering Emperor of Adrestia, wielding a bloodstained axe, horns upon her head. 

Try as she might, she can only conjure the smiling Edelgard from a simpler time, when the world was not so unbearably bleak. 

**Garreg Mach in broad daylight is the crown jewel of Fodlan.** As she gazes at it from the grassy hill she and Edelgard are taking their midday meal on, Byleth cannot help but admire its curving spires and sturdy stone walls, the way it seems impregnable and inviting all at once. Church, stronghold, nexus of the continent - it is all these things, yet to Byleth it is foremost a proud homage to human ingenuity. 

“We should return.” Edelgard’s strained tone draws Byleth’s eyes away from the monastery and towards the Emperor of Adrestia herself. She is sitting rigidly on Byleth’s cloak (their makeshift picnic blanket) in her usual scarlet ceremonial armor, the stern, horned crown of her country upon her head. Her appearance would have been formidable, if not for the almost comical look of consternation upon her normally stoic face. “I’m grateful for what you’re doing for me, Byleth, but there’s too much work to be done for us to be lounging about like this.”

Byleth shrugs. “It’s a beautiful day,” she says. “It would be a shame not to enjoy it. More tea?”

Edelgard reluctantly accepts the proffered lukewarm beverage, but she doesn’t drink from it. She just cradles it in her palms, thinking, her brow furrowed.

Her brow had been similarly furrowed when Byleth walked in on her two hours earlier in the Archbishop’s office. She had been poring over a detailed map of Fodlan, muttering to herself and tracing possible routes through Faerghus. She was so focused that she didn’t notice Byleth’s presence until she rapped her knuckle twice upon the doorframe.

Edelgard’s head shot up in surprise. “Professor. I didn’t see you there.” Byleth had not been her teacher in an official capacity for some years now, but Edelgard still occasionally lapsed into her old habits when she was preoccupied. “Good timing. I need to discuss a few things with you.”

Byleth stepped inside. Before the door swung closed, Edelgard was already airing what was on her mind.

“Our allies to the east cannot join our forces in time if they take a direct route through Charon. The mountains will hinder their progress, and they will come too late to bolster our numbers. Likewise, having them take the long way around through Garreg Mach would take too many days. Delaying our advance is one option, but that would give our enemies more time to prepare. We need to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve putting us at a disadvantage while also - ”

“Edelgard.”

At the sound of her own name, Edelgard stopped mid-rant and looked at her.

“What?” Her breathing was heavy, ragged. Byleth observed the bags under her eyes, the slumping of her shoulders, and felt a pang of concern.

“When’s the last time you slept? Did you eat breakfast?” 

Edelgard blinked at the sudden question. “I don’t… That’s not important right now.”

Byleth stepped closer. “It is. Even an emperor needs rest and food. You need to take care of yourself.” 

“I _am_. But we have so much to do before next month.” Her mouth twisted as she pressed a clenched fist to her forehead. “We have to be ready. We cannot allow another defeat on our hands. The Church has thwarted so many of our plans already, and they always seem to be one step ahead. If we slow down even for a moment, we could lose the war entirely.”

Byleth knew that she played no small part in these fears and anxieties. She was, after all, spying for the Church and passing along crucial information. Still, she wasn’t able to harden her heart against her own former student. Edelgard was too young to bear these burdens. 

So it was both guilt and impulsiveness that prompted her into action. 

“Right,” she announced. “We should go for a ride.”

“Excuse me? What-”

Byleth plowed through her protests. “Meet me at the stables in fifteen minutes. I’ll have the horses saddled and ready. Ride with me, and _then_ we can talk strategy.” 

Without waiting for a response, she pivoted on her heel and exited, leaving Edelgard sputtering behind her. A rushed visit to the kitchens yielded enough bread loaves, cheese, and cured meat for a simple lunch, and when she told the stablemaster that Edelgard wished to ride, he was quick to bring out the swiftest horses available.

When Edelgard finally arrived, she looked discomfited and unsure. She nodded her thanks to the stablemaster as she approached them, and he bowed extravagantly before backing away. 

Byleth was already perched upon her horse. “Are you ready?” she asked.

The white-haired woman was still unconvinced. “It is madness to leave now,” she insisted, even as she began to mount. “We don’t have the time.”

Byleth gathered the reins up in her hands. “Afraid you can’t keep up?” And before Edelgard could answer, she spurred her horse. “Hah!”

“Byleth!” Edelgard dug her heels in instinctively to chase after her, and they both thundered out the gate. 

Byleth led them across the moat, following the main road until they came up to a side branch that cut into the nearby forest. The leaves overhead cast dappled shadows upon them, shielding them from the sun, and the breeze as they galloped was cool and pleasant. 

The path widened gradually as they exited the glade, and when there was enough space, Edelgard pulled up to match Byleth’s pace. The drumming of hooves against the ground was loud enough to discourage conversation, so they were silent. Byleth glanced at her occasionally as they rode together. As they put more and more distance between them and Garreg Mach, Edelgard’s shoulders lost some of their stiffness, and a tiny spark of life entered her eyes. 

Now they are here, sprawled under the open expanse of blue sky, their bellies full and warm. Edelgard did not bring up the war or their armies while they were eating, but as she gazes into her tea, that haunted expression from earlier steals back across her features. 

Byleth reaches out to take one of Edelgard’s hands. Edelgard flinches a little at the touch, but she allows Byleth to pry her fingers away from the cup. 

“Stressing yourself out won’t help anyone,” she says gently. “If you can’t unwind once in a while, it’ll only hurt the cause in the long run.”

Edelgard swallows hard. She turns away, setting her sights on Garreg Mach, but she doesn’t pull her hand out of Byleth’s grasp. Her words have struck a nerve, as Byleth knew they would. Edelgard has never done anything for her own sake, but she would do anything for her people. The lengths to which she would go for others can become alienating; her selflessness can be inhuman. 

But Byleth sees the goodness in it, too. And it is that goodness that she hopes will save them all - both Adrestia and the Church - from total annihilation. 

When Edelgard looks at her again, the corners of her mouth have softened. Her thumb brushes over Byleth’s in an appreciative gesture. 

“You are right,” she concludes, then breathes in deep, savoring the scent of the grass and the sun. “And it _is_ a nice day.”

Byleth gives into the urge to tease her. “Ah, so the Emperor of Adrestia knows how to relax after all. Wonders upon wonders.”

Edelgard jerks her hand away and squares her shoulders, glaring imperiously down her nose. “There is nothing the Emperor cannot do,” she says in her frostiest voice. She holds the pose for a few beats, but then a laugh bubbles up and ruins the effect. Byleth finds herself laughing, too. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon in quiet comfort, enjoying the spring weather and each other’s company. For once, they don’t touch upon the subject of war. Instead, they trade gossip about their friends and tell light-hearted anecdotes from their past, filling up the hours with inane conversation. Edelgard seems more carefree than she’s been in a long, long time, but it’s a welcome reprieve for Byleth as well. The battles and her espionage have taken their toll on her psyche. It’s good to step back and be reminded of how the future could possibly be, of what she’s working towards.

It is with considerable reluctance that the both of them pack away their things when the shadows begin to lengthen. They find excuses to linger; Byleth takes extra time to carefully shake off the crumbs from her coat, Edelgard makes a point of watering the horses. The day has to end, however, and eventually they mount their horses and angle themselves back towards Garreg Mach.

Edelgard calls out to her before they take off. “Byleth.” Her smile is unpracticed, hesitant. “Thank you. Again. I needed this, even if I didn’t know it.”

Byleth’s chest swells. “Someone besides Hubert has to look out for you from time to time,” she intones. It elicits a chuckle from the Emperor.

“It’s funny,” she says, a distant gleam in her eye. “I didn’t want to come at first, but now I don’t feel like heading home.” She tilts her head up at the sky, which is streaked now in orange and red. “If only this peace could last forever.”

Byleth watches her, drinking in the suddenly melancholy figure she cuts, backlit by the light of the setting sun. In half an hour, they will be inside the gates of the monastery once more, their hearts hardening, their minds filled with violence and conquest. Edelgard will resume her war plans, and Byleth will resume her spying. Just two pieces in a chess game, carrying out their respective roles. 

“It could, you know,” she says, so quietly that Edelgard almost doesn’t hear her. Edelgard blinks and looks at her, not comprehending. It’s dangerous to continue, but she does anyway. “You could… _We_ could put an end to this. If we just parley with the Church, find a way to compromise...” 

She trails off, not daring to finish the thought. They let the unspoken words hang in the air between them, growing heavier and heavier like a weight around both their necks. 

“I know you dream of compromise,” Edelgard finally says. Her voice is soft, but the coolness in it has returned. “But the Church is far too corrupt for that. As long as Rhea rules over it, Fodlan will never be free.” She tugs at the reins in her hand, turning her back to Byleth. 

“There will be plenty of time for peace after the war.” 

With that, she begins to trot away. Byleth, her throat dry, can only follow.

 _There will_ , she agrees silently. But she fears more than anything that Edelgard may not live to see it.

<\strong>Garreg Mach in slumber is a tomb of silence. This late at night, most of its residents are buried in their beds, and anyone walking within its walls appears as no more than a wraith drifting among gravestones.

Byleth is one such wraith now. She ghosts down spiraling stairways and past faded tapestries, no particular destination in mind. A periodic insomniac, she’s taken to wandering the monastery grounds until her feet, leaden from lack of sleep, drag her back to her room. It’s more relaxing than tossing and turning between her sheets, waiting for a rest that will not come. Besides, she has Sothis for company, and the green-haired girl prefers exploring Garreg Mach to glaring aimlessly at Byleth’s sparse and bland furniture. 

_These dreary halls are not much better_ , gripes a voice in her ear. Byleth blinks in amusement. _Surely, in a place this large, there must be more pleasant things to look at._

The former mercenary obliges and pivots, directing herself towards the nearest courtyard. It will be good to see the stars. To her surprise, however, someone is already there when she steps out into the evening. 

“Ah, it’s you,” says Edelgard von Hresvelg. She had been seated on a bench, gazing up at the sky, but at the sound of Byleth’s footsteps, she turns and spots her. “Out late again, I see. What brings you here?”

A strange feeling of absence washes over Byleth as Sothis’ presence vanishes from her head. Of late, she’s been disappearing whenever Edelgard is around. _For your privacy_ , she replies when asked, and refuses to explain further. 

Byleth sees the bags under Edelgard’s eyes and answers her question with another. “Trouble sleeping?”

Edelgard knits her brow. “Is it that obvious?” She sighs. “I despise being cooped up when sleep evades me. I just have to get some fresh air.”

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

The princess flashes her a brief smile and shifts down the bench a little to make room. “Well, you’re welcome to join me.”

Byleth takes a seat beside her. Edelgard cranes her neck and resumes her stargazing, and Byleth follows suit. The moon is only a tiny sliver of a crescent tonight, so the stars can shine in all their cold and distant glory. There is a peace in the way they sit there together, quietly looking up.

“Do you remember what I told you the other night? About my past?” Byleth glances at the girl beside her, but Edelgard keeps her eyes trained upon the sky.

Byleth remembers, of course. Desperation. Insanity. The death of ten Hresvelg children. But she does not know if this is a test. Byleth has never been good at reading people.

She decides to be honest. “Should I say I forgot? You told me to forget…”

When Edelgard frowns, she knows she has chosen wrongly, as she often does. Still, Edelgard continues speaking; her mistake does not mark the end of the conversation.

“Perhaps if I tell you more, it will come back to you.” She inhales deeply, then lets the breath out, long and slow. “The truth is, there is more to the story. My siblings and I... We were imprisoned underground, beneath the palace…”

Byleth listens. She does not open her mouth once as Edelgard paints a miserable picture before her, of human experimentation and power gone mad and sins beyond redemption, and she listens and she _understands_. The causes for Edelgard’s restlessness, her single-minded dedication, her refusal of even the sparest of pleasures - they are buried here, in the unhappy and shameful legacy of the Empire. 

“And there you have it,” Edelgard finishes bitterly. “The truth of the Hresvelg Empire… and of Edelgard von Hresvelg, an abomination.”

Byleth studies Edelgard and tries to imagine her with brown hair, surrounded by a gaggle of brothers and sisters. If they were still alive, what kind of person would she have been? Would she have been happy? Would her smiles be less tinged with the guilt of the living? Byleth will never get to find out.

“It’s unbelievable,” are all the words she can muster. 

Edelgard nods. “Nevertheless, it’s true. When you see what I possess, you will understand. I have kept it hidden all this time, but… I will reveal to you my second Crest.”

For the first time - Byleth is only now just realizing - Edelgard pulls off one of her pristine white gloves in front of her. The reason for why she wears them all the time is immediately apparent. Every inch of the skin underneath is covered in thick, ragged scars, remnants of the torture she endured.

Byleth does not even have time to react. Edelgard flexes her fingers, and the atmosphere compresses with the presence of magic. A sigil twists, then blooms in the palm of her hand. Byleth recognizes it with a jolt. It’s the same one that formed when Hanneman tested her blood, and when she wielded the Sword of the Creator for the first time.

The Crest of Flames. 

Edelgard lets the symbol linger for a few seconds before dispelling it. She gloves her fingers once more, hiding the terrible wounds. She tilts her chin up and looks straight at Byleth.

“When it manifested for me, I swore a silent oath. For the sake of my family and for all the poor souls whose lives were traded for my existence…” Her hand curls into a fist, and her jaw clenches. True to the Crest imbued within her, she burns with rage and power. “For their sake, I will build a world where such meaningless sacrifice is never again sanctioned. As emperor, I will change the world. I swear it.”

Before Byleth knows it, her arm lifts. Edelgard’s eyes widen as Byleth puts a hand over hers. “I’ll help you,” she says, and she mourns again the loss of the Hresvelg siblings she has never met, the Edelgard she will never know. Surely a society that has allowed such atrocities to occur requires reformation.

Edelgard, however, only shakes her head gently. She clasps Byleth’s hand for a moment, then pulls away. “Thank you, my teacher.” Her sadness speaks of more secrets, more unbearable mysteries she has yet to reveal. “But you should never be so quick to ally yourself to anyone. You never know what price they are willing to pay.” 

Byleth will be unable to make sense of her cryptic warning until much later. And by that time, it will be too late.

**Garreg Mach in defeat reeks of despair.**

They sit in the war room, spent after the long, fruitless discussion. No one is speaking. Byleth takes the moment to examine the grim faces around her. At the head is Edelgard, looking listless and exhausted. Dorothea’s cheeks are still tearstained from a few minutes ago when she went to go “refresh herself.” Petra is seated next to her, her mouth a thin line. Caspar and Ferdinand are conversing in heated whispers, while Lysithea traces the grain of the table moodily. Only Linhardt looks normal, though even he seems gloomier than usual. 

At Edelgard’s side, Hubert clears his throat. Everyone looks up at him, some angry, some wary. 

“Are we agreed, then?” he asks.

Caspar slams a palm down. “Of course not!” He is almost shouting. “It's ridiculous. We’re all on the same side!”

“Well, that is the issue, isn’t it?” Hubert’s voice remains soft, dangerous. “Someone _isn’t_ on our side. How else could the Church have thwarted so many of our plans?” His eyes glitter through his shaggy black hair as he glares at all of them. “Perhaps it’s someone in this very room.” Byleth can only hope she’s imagining that his gaze lingers on her. 

Dorothea shakes her head rather miserably. “There has to be another explanation,” she mutters. “There’s no way…”

To everyone’s surprise, Lysithea speaks up. “He has a point,” she says, frowning. “I didn’t want to think about it, but it makes sense. We’ve lost too much this time around for it to be a fluke. And Bernie…” A fresh sniffle from Dorothea makes her realize what she's saying and she promptly shuts her mouth.

Ferdinand leans forward to interject. “Couldn’t it be a matter of strategy?” he suggests. “The Church has a thousand years of experience behind it. Maybe, if we just approached our battles from a different angle-”

“We’ve already tried that,” yawns Linhardt. He stretches theatrically. “And we’ve been soundly beaten every time. Can I go now? All this arguing is making me tired.”

“We are speaking of matters great in consequence!” Petra is the one who raises her voice this time. Hard worker that she is, she cannot abide his lax attitude. "How can you not be caring?” She narrows her eyes. “Perhaps _you_ are-”

“Petra!” Dorothea exclaims in alarm, but Hubert holds up a hand.

“Petra is right. Every single person that’s been in this room is suspect.” He thrusts his chin at the conspicuously empty chair at the table that no one else has dared to acknowledge. “Excepting Bernadetta, of course.”

At that, Caspar shoots to his feet, his hands balled into fists. “Now you’ve gone too far!” Instantly, a pulsing orb of pure darkness appears in Hubert’s left hand, and he holds it up in savage anticipation. 

“Enough.”

At Edelgard’s command, everyone freezes. 

“Hubert, Caspar. Stand down. You know better.” Her voice is quiet and tired, but they obey without question. Caspar flops back into his seat, dejected. Hubert dispels the magic with a flourish and sits down as well.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” He makes a half-bow, but then returns to the subject, undeterred. “I would ask your guidance on how to proceed, however. If there is a traitor in our midst, we must bring them to justice swiftly.”

She leans her elbows against the table, folding her hands and resting her head against them in thought. The rest of them watch her, waiting for her orders. _Byleth_ watches her. 

“No.” 

She straightens up in her chair, scanning their faces, searching for challenge. When they all stay silent, she adds, “We will not pursue this further. It will only drive a wedge between us, of which our enemies will be glad.”

Hubert’s expression is a mixture of pain and incredulity. “Your Majesty,” he begins, “I must insist-”

“You forget yourself, Hubert.” Her chilly admonition is as effective as a knife across his throat. At his stricken grimace, she softens. 

“I thank you for your counsel. Several years ago, I might have thought the same way.” Her eyes find Byleth’s across the table before she continues. “But I have learned differently since then. I was taught the truth of what it means to trust. We cannot live in perpetual suspicion, doubting our friends and betraying our allies.”

There is a sinking in Byleth’s chest. She has to hold every muscle in her body rigid so that she does not tremble. 

“Bernadetta trusted you all. She gave her life for that trust. I will not dishonor her memory by breaking it. And neither will any of you.” She closes her eyes for several seconds, during which no one breathes. When she opens them again, her violet eyes are clear and unclouded. “This meeting is over. You are dismissed.” 

The hush that falls over them is broken by the scrape of wood against ground as Edelgard pushes away from the table and stands. She sweeps out of the room without a backward glance. 

The others are slower to leave. They talk among themselves for a time, though the atmosphere is more subdued than before, and they don’t bring up the possibility of a spy again. Eventually, however, they begin trickling out in ones and twos, until only Byleth is left. She sits at the table, waiting until the footsteps in the hall fade, then sighs and gets to her feet as well. She makes herself walk over to Bernadetta’s old seat, touches the carvings upon its back. 

_I’m sorry_ , she thinks. _I didn’t mean for it to happen_.

Even in her mind, it sounds hollow. An apology is worthless if the offender does not intend on stopping. Bernadetta’s death only proves that Rhea’s plan is working. The Imperial forces are pinned down, unable to venture further north than Garreg Mach itself. Villages and fortresses that would’ve otherwise been in their path remain unmolested. The Church’s victory is at hand.

If only that could bring Byleth even a modicum of comfort.

She exits the war room, letting her feet take her where they will. She is almost dismayed when she finds herself outside the door to the Archbishop’s office. She has no right to be here, after all she’s done. Still, she knocks, and when there is no response, she goes in.

Edelgard stands by the window, her back to the entrance, gazing out as the sun sets over the monastery grounds. She does not move as Byleth nears, and when she does speak, it is more to herself than it is to the tactician. 

“She was the best of us.” Her tone is dull. Dispassionate. Byleth only waits, and in her silence, the Emperor looks up at her and repeats, more angrily, “She was the best of us. And I killed her.”

“You didn’t kill her.” _I did_ , Byleth wants to add. 

“I might as well have. She never wanted to fight. But she stayed by my side, put her faith in me. And look how I have repaid her.” If her fingers weren’t gloved, they would be drawing blood from the meat of her palm. 

“Death is an inevitability of war,” Byleth says, as much for her own benefit as Edelgard’s. “She knew the risks. We all do.”

Edelgard whirls on her, nostrils flaring. Byleth flinches back, startled by her sudden fury, but she closes the gap and grabs at Byleth's cape, making her stumble in close. Stray strands of her white hair fall loosely across her forehead, her wild eyes feverish and shining with unshed tears.

“And how many more of my friends must I watch die?” Edelgard chokes on her rage, gagging on self-hatred. “How many more must lose their lives because of my incompetency?” 

Gone is the composure from earlier. Gone is her stoic mask and regal forbearance. She glares at Byleth with equal accusation and supplication, and Byleth realizes that she is in the presence of an Emperor come undone. 

It is too easy for Byleth to put her arms around Edelgard and pull her in. She leans upon the shoulders shaking beneath her and tucks the other girl’s head under her chin in one natural movement. Edelgard doesn’t even struggle - in fact, she presses into the embrace, the horns upon her crown so close to Byleth’s throat that they almost puncture the soft flesh there. She does not weep or scream. A lifetime of relentless suffering has deprived her of such luxuries, and she cannot indulge in them even if she wants to. She simply allows herself to be held.

When the trembling stops, Byleth loosens her grip. Edelgard takes one long, shuddering breath, then tilts her chin up, her fingers still clutching the fabric of Byleth's uniform. Her brows furrow in wordless need.

“Byleth…” she whispers. This close, her breath ghosts upon Byleth’s cheek. “Could we…” Her lips part as she wets them with her tongue nervously.

For some reason, it is this act of vulnerability more than anything else that snaps Byleth back to reality. A lightning strike of guilt and shame smashes through her and threatens to tear her chest asunder. With Edelgard before her, staring up at her as if she is the last, solid anchor in a storm-tossed world, there is only one thing she can do.

She coughs. It is polite and distant. Edelgard halts, her eyes widening. Byleth takes the opportunity to delicately step back.

“You should rest,” says her treacherous mouth. It is numb and tastes of lead. Edelgard nods too quickly and pivots, walking stiffly back towards her desk.

“O-Of course. You’re right.” She smooths the faint shock from her features, and when she looks up at Byleth again, it is with only a tinge of sadness. “Thank you for coming to see me, Byleth.” She pauses, then adds with great difficulty, “You are… a comfort to me.”

Byleth just nods. She doesn't dare open her mouth. If she does, she will tell Edelgard everything.

She ducks an automatic bow and all but flees, not wanting to see what expression the other woman makes. She keeps her lips pressed together all the way back to her room, barely taking the time to breathe. She collapses to her knees at the foot of her bed once she's closed the door, clutching her chest in agony. 

After all she’s done - how dare she? She has no right to set foot near Edelgard, let alone touch her. And worst of all, Edelgard had looked her in the eyes and called her a _comfort_. If there were any justice in the world, Byleth Eisner would be torn limb from limb and her bones would be made into a monument at the Emperor’s feet, her body pulverised into bloody pulp in some pitiful attempt at atonement. If there were any justice in this world, Bernadetta would still be alive. 

But there is no justice. There is only the Goddess and her instruments. And no amount of penance now will absolve Byleth of her crime, so she must carry it through to the end.

When Byleth gets to her feet once more, it is with a terrible and resigned resolve. Her actions must not be in vain. These lies, Bernadetta’s death, must amount to _something_. She cannot fail now.

 _Sothis, help me through this_. 

There is no answering flicker in her mind. 

There is only the sensation of a noose being slowly tightened around her neck - a noose of her own making.

**Garreg Mach under siege groans and shudders with the weight of a new war.**

Edelgard von Hresvelg, Emperor of Adrestia and commander of the Black Eagle Strike Force, throws her arm out towards the beleaguered fortress. 

“Again!” she shouts, and at her order, the catapults let fly. Flaming boulders rocket through the air and smash against the bulwarks of the monastery. Screams float up into the night.

Byleth stands by the Emperor’s side and watches as the walls of her former home are pummelled. All around her the world is burning, belching smoke and heat until the very sky is obscured from view. She has fought in many battles before, but never has she encountered a scene like this. 

Their army has sliced a ragged path to the main gate. The Knights of Seiros that ambushed them have fled or been killed. Byleth herself had witnessed Petra, on her dark stallion of a pegasus, bring down Seteth’s wyvern with a well-placed thrust of her lance. Their battle had been brief but brutal, and Flayn had screamed when she witnessed her father falling towards the earth. She had dived forth to catch him at the same time, however, and was able to bear him away towards safety before any more harm could befall either of them.

They are the lucky ones. Byleth trudges past broken bodies and dying men with no small sense of dread. When she glances at Edelgard’s face, however, she sees nothing but grim satisfaction.

It had been so easy to choose her, back in the Holy Tomb only days ago when Rhea had ordered Byleth to kill her. Byleth had looked at that same face and saw only the desperate defiance of a girl whose life had been stolen away from her even before she was born. And when she had turned her sword against the Archbishop, defended the young woman who was both her student and her friend, she was sure she had made the right choice.

Now, confronted with the death and destruction before her, she’s not so sure.

Edelgard notices her staring and mistakes it as a plea for reassurance. “Well done, Professor. We’re winning, thanks to you.” Her eyes are bright with adrenaline and triumph as she trains them on the monastery. The culmination of everything she’s dreamed of, everything she’s ever worked towards, lies before her. 

_Is it worth it?_

Byleth sweeps the Sword of the Creator up to repel a would-be attacker. She plunges her blade through the breastplate of the enemy soldier, and hot blood splatters the stones beneath her feet.

More enemies converge upon them. Edelgard whirls in a glorious, deadly arc. The hellish glow of Aymr casts her features in sharp relief. With every strike, the Crest of Seiros flashes like a harbinger of death. 

_What will be left, after all this?_

They break through the Church’s final defenses. Rhea waits for them at the end of the Great Hall, wielding the Sword and Shield of Seiros. She locks eyes with Edelgard across the battlefield, and both emit a howl of hate and rage. They fly towards each other, white colliding into red, and the force of the impact seems to shake the very walls of the monastery.

Rhea drives the point of her sword straight at Edelgard’s heart. The Emperor, taking advantage of her lighter build, pivots to the right and uses the momentum to slam her axe into the shield on the other woman’s arm. Rhea stumbles from the blow, but manages to catch herself just in time to block Edelgard’s returning swing with her own weapon. 

_How many more lives will be lost?_

Metal squeals upon metal. The two combatants part, only to meet again with tremendous force. Rhea is much quicker than Byleth would ever have expected, and her movements are those of a seasoned warrior. She lunges forth and catches Edelgard in the shoulder, slicing a hot ribbon of scarlet down her arm. Edelgard yelps, but fueled with the fever of battle, does not waver. Rhea makes the mistake of relaxing a fraction at the sight of her enemy’s blood, and spotting an opening, the younger woman smashes the butt of Aymr into the elbow of Rhea’s right arm with a sickening crack. The Archbishop screams and drops her sword. When she raises her shield in reflex, Edelgard plants one boot onto the gilded surface and shoves her away. 

_Is this the cost of peace?_

Rhea tumbles over and over down the stairs, landing in a pile at the bottom just a scant yard away from Byleth’s feet. Byleth freezes and gazes down at her. The Archbishop lies still for a moment, so still that Byleth wonders if she’s dead, but then she stirs. When she lifts her head, pure loathing shines out of her pale green eyes. 

“No…” she hisses. Her breath comes in laborious gasps. Panting, she places her hands on the ground and braces herself. 

“Professor!” Byleth whips her head around. Edelgard has dropped to her knees, clutching the shoulder that Rhea opened. She grits her teeth and shouts through the pain of her injury. “Finish it!"

Byleth turns the Sword of the Creator over in her hand, looking at it as if from a great distance. Her feet feel rooted to the floor. 

_Is there no other way?_

Rhea, coughing, begins to crawl forward. Her skin pulses with an unearthly green light. “I will not allow… Garreg Mach...”

“Professor!”

“Or my mother…”

“Please, my teacher!”

“...To fall!”

Rhea’s flesh splits open, revealing a scaly white beneath. The sinew and bone deform and reform, growing larger and more monstrous before Byleth's very eyes. She can only watch in speechless horror as the amalgam of muscle devours the space around it. It twists like liquid silver into the air until finally, solidifying, it takes the shape of an enormous beast.

The Immaculate One roars and lashes her tail, knocking down a stone pillar as easily as if it is composed of toy wooden blocks. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the whole building shakes. The dragon rears up, each giant claw upon her foot a scything death.

And still, Byleth cannot move. She tilts her head up, almost curiously, and when she beholds her end looming over her, it is not death that occupies her thoughts.

 _Was I wrong?_

That is all she can think as Rhea crashes down upon her, screeching triumphantly.

" _Byleth_!"

Edelgard's desolate cry is the last thing she hears.

The world goes dark.

 **Garreg Mach in revelry has an otherworldly beauty.** Its stone walls appear silver under the full moon, and the sparks from the blazing torches look like so many fireflies dancing into the sky. The sounds of music and laughter echo across the monastery, bringing joy to whomever may be listening.

Byleth rests her elbows upon the ramparts of the Goddess Tower and looks fondly out over the stronghold. The crisp winter air is refreshing after the heat and clamor of the Main Hall. She had never known anything like the grand ball still raging on below; it was a far cry from the simple pleasures of a full belly and a crackling fire that she had thought so luxurious a lifetime ago. She surveys her strange home with unparalleled contentment.

Footsteps ring out against the stone staircase leading up to the uppermost level of the tower. When Byleth turns, she’s greeted by a familiar voice. 

“Ah, here you are.” Edelgard emerges into the night air, still flushed from the party. “I saw you leaving the hall and I thought…” Her eyes dart about, as if she expects to find another person hiding in the shadows. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

Byleth shakes her head. “Just needed some air.”

For some reason, Edelgard’s lips curve upward with satisfaction. “Good,” she says. “I would not wish to interrupt anything. May I join you?”

Byleth shuffles to the side to make room for her, although the tower is so large that there’s hardly any need for it. Edelgard draws near and takes in the view of the monastery.

“It looks so different from up here,” she murmurs. Absently, she brushes her hair behind one ear. “So… small and far away, somehow.” 

“Are you afraid of heights?”

At her question, Edelgard lets out a small, surprised laugh. “No, not at all. Are you?” When Byleth raises her eyebrows, she laughs again. “I suppose you wouldn’t be here if you were.”

The woman before her tonight is different from the severe, serious princess that Byleth has come to know. Edelgard seems carefree for once, buoyed by the evening’s celebrations. A rare smile graces her normally stern countenance, and she seems eager to speak.

“You left at a good time. I believe Alois was starting up a conga line, and he would _not_ take no for an answer.” 

Byleth pictures it and winces. “How did you escape?”

A mischievous gleam appears in Edelgard’s eye. “Hubert can be… quite dissuasive.” 

They fall into an easy rhythm, discussing the party, the food, their friends. By tacit agreement, they avoid the more serious subjects that they’re prone to gravitate towards, and again, Edelgard’s talkativeness startles Byleth. The chill in the air begins to nip as the night deepens, but, warmed by their conversation, she hardly notices it. 

It is only after Edelgard has finished telling Byleth the tale of her parents meeting in the Goddess Tower that she seems to recollect herself. Pink dusts across the bridge of her nose and she averts her eyes, abruptly embarrassed.

“Listen to me prattle on. Forgive me, Professor. It's strange. Something about you makes me reveal all of the things I so carefully keep concealed.”

“It’s a lovely story,” Byleth is quick to reassure.

“Isn't it? It's a shame that the lovely stories ended after I was born.” Bitterness enters her expression, but before Byleth can say anything else, she smooths it away. “Anyway... What about you? It's your turn to reveal some long-held secret! You can share a story about your past, or perhaps…” Her eyes light up with an idea and she leans in. “Tell me about your first love.”

Byleth casts her mind back to her mercenary days, trying to think of anyone who even remotely stood out to her, and comes up empty. She shrugs. “I have no such stories.”

Edelgard scrutinizes her carefully. After a moment, she straightens and frowns. “You’re telling the truth. I can tell.” Disappointed, she adds, “I wasn’t even able to make you blush.”

Byleth feels obliged to apologize for her evident dismay. “Sorry…” she begins, but Edelgard waves her off.

“I’m the one who should apologize. It was not my intention to pry.” She sighs in good-natured frustration. “I just… got excited at the prospect of learning more about you. You’re so mysterious, Professor. We all know so little about you.” She lifts her violet eyes to meet Byleth’s, and there is a daring in them that makes Byleth shiver. “I can’t help but be intrigued.”

A silence descends upon them, and the music from the Main Hall rises to fill it. They both gaze out over the ramparts once more. A mild breeze ruffles the silvery strands of Edelgard’s hair and under the moonlight, she seems to glow. 

"We should return to the ball,” the princess says, but there is an undercurrent of reluctance in her voice. “There must be plenty of students hoping to talk with you... and to dance with you.”

There is just the faintest hint of a pout in the way her lower lip protrudes. It is so uncharacteristically childish that Byleth almost laughs. She suppresses the chuckle and instead offers up one hand, tucking the other behind her back.

“How about you?” she asks a bemused Edelgard. “Do you wish to dance with me as well?”

Edelgard swallows. She reaches out, her fingers trembling and, after a few seconds of hesitation, takes Byleth’s hand. 

They sway languidly to the faint sound of violins being played at the ball a world away. Byleth, untrained in dance, is unable to do anything more graceful than place her hand against the small of Edelgard’s back and avoid stepping on her toes, but the princess doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles as they circle around the Goddess Tower, and her hand is warm even through the fabric of her gloves. 

The song fades. Byleth twirls Edelgard one last time and they come to a stop. They part and bow to each other, finishing the dance.

“Well,” muses Edelgard when they’ve straightened up, “I can see why you’re so popular among my peers, Professor.” A slight blush stains her cheeks, but she remains composed. “And… I suppose we really must go back now. They will be missing you. I cannot keep you all to myself, after all.” 

With that, she turns away and descends the stairs. Her parting words echo long in Byleth’s ears after she’s left. She looks around the empty Goddess Tower again, picturing Edelgard’s mother and father meeting here for the first time. 

What must it feel like, to fall in love at first sight? The idea is so foreign that Byleth cannot begin to fathom it. But perhaps, given time, intimacy, and shared experiences, she could come to know the feeling of love as well. 

And with that thought in mind, she leaves the tower and returns to the light and life of the ball. 

**Garreg Mach at war is drowning in blood.**

Byleth stumbles and nearly slips on the slick, scarlet flagstones beneath her feet. She recoils from the groans of the dying, but there is no escape. Bodies - impaled on spears, throats slit open, cleaved in two - are strewn all over the monastery grounds. At a glance, it’s difficult to tell whether most of them are clad in the red of the Adrestian Empire or in the white of the Knights of Seiros. 

When she began this subterfuge, it had only been to avoid as many deaths as possible. Yet now, confronted with this scene of carnage, Byleth is unable to calculate the cost. She can only drive herself forward, using the flat of her blade to knock aside any soldiers who get in her way, regardless of affiliation. 

“Once the battle starts, make your way towards me,” Rhea had ordered her the night before. The Church and its allies, nearing victory, would lead one last assault against the Empire’s forces and take back Garreg Mach. “In the chaos, no one should notice until it’s too late. As soon as they see their beloved commander standing by my side, the Adrestian rebels’ morale will be destroyed. The traitor on the throne will have no choice but to parley, and then you can speak your piece.”

Byleth had blanched at the thought. “Edelgard will never forgive me,” she said automatically, but Rhea dismissed her objection. 

“Did you think you could hide in the shadows forever? You may have her forgiveness or her life - not both. You knew before you even agreed to work for me. This is how it was always going to be.” When Byleth did not respond, she sighed. 

“I have honored our deal. I did not have Edelgard killed, as you have asked. Yet, over the course of this whole sorry war, you have not convinced her to surrender and come peacefully. Thanks to your actions, hundreds of people have been slain, most of them your allies.” Byleth pictured the Archbishop steepling her fingers. “Now, I hand you a way to rectify your mistakes, and you refuse to take it? Think about it, Byleth. How many more must die before you are satisfied?”

Byleth had thought about it. Only one path lay before her.

Now, she weaves through the clashing armies, searching for the center of the Church forces. Unnatural lightning crackles through the scorched air, draining the monastery of color. Soldiers lift their spears in black and white; arrows fly in a gray arc above her head. 

When the next bolt flashes and illuminates the entire battlefield, Byleth sees them.

Hubert is hurling spell after spell at Rhea, his mouth twisted in a savage grin. Most of them glance off the Shield of Seiros upon her right forearm, but their impact forces the Archbishop back. The right hand of the Emperor advances with each confident, vicious strike. 

“What’s the matter, Immaculate One?” he taunts. “Why don’t you show your true form? Become the monster we all know you are.” The dark energy from his hands seeps into the ground, turning the surrounding area into a sinister mire. Soldiers rushing to Rhea’s defense halt in their tracks and clutch their heads in agony, beset by hallucinations and the demons lurking in their minds.

Rhea snarls as she deflects another attack. “Insolent whelp,” she spits. “There will be no hope of salvation for you when you die. Your soul will burn in - _Argh_!”

Hubert, sensing an opportunity, drops down and presses his palms to the earth. He sends a ripple of power in Rhea’s direction, and the area beneath her explodes upwards and knocks her off her feet. She lands in a crumpled heap several yards away, her sword and shield knocked out of her grip. Hubert strides forth in triumph. 

“It will be an honor to personally deliver your corpse to Her Majesty.” Rhea reaches for her weapon, but Hubert is quicker. He kicks the Sword of Seiros away, sending it skittering across the stones. He stands over her, readying another spell in his fist, and smiles without warmth. “Goodbye, Archbishop.”

But Rhea has spotted Byleth standing behind the dark mage. She draws a desperate breath, even as Hubert raises his arm to deliver the finishing blow.

“Byleth! Now!”

Hubert flinches and half-turns his head. “What-”

A shining blade sprouts from his chest. When Byleth looks down, she is almost surprised to find that it is her own sword buried hilt-deep in his back. 

The magic dissipates from Hubert’s fingertips. With trembling hands, he touches the Sword of the Creator in disbelief, then cranes his neck around to see his attacker. His eyes widen in shock.

“No! It can’t be…” Recognition, then rage, passes over his features. “The traitor… It was you all along?”

His body slides off the naked edge of the weapon with a wet sound, and he falls to his knees. Byleth quickly sheathes the sword and catches him as he tilts forward, laying him down upon his back. He gazes up at her, pain dulling the light in his pupils already. 

“I should have… just disposed of you… when I had the chance…” His eyes turn towards the clouded sky. “We must place our faith… in Her Majesty…” He takes one last, shuddering gasp.

“I’m sorry, Lady Edelgard…”

Hubert von Vestra, Marquess Vestra, trusted adviser to Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg and her oldest friend, dies with her name on his lips. 

A terrible scream rents the air. Heads swivel and the cacophony of battle dies. Byleth rises to her feet swiftly and draws her sword once more, searching for the source. 

She is nearly halfway across the courtyard, but even from this great a distance, Byleth is able to see the grief and horror etched upon Edelgard’s visage. They lock eyes and, in that infinitesimal moment, it finally, _finally_ hits her.

She had been wrong from the very beginning.

She had thought she’d be able to convince Edelgard. She had hoped - blindly, stupidly - that with enough time and enough losses, Edelgard would come to the conclusion that she could not win and would seek a different option. She had imagined that, just by being by Edelgard’s side, she could somehow steer her away from the war. She had even convinced herself that this would save the lives of their friends and allies.

In reality, it had only been cowardice. Byleth Eisner was a coward who could not raise a hand against the damaged, lonely woman who against all odds believed in her, but was also too much of a coward to stand proudly with her. Fearing the choices before her, she had taken refuge in the middle path, telling herself all the while that it was the righteous one.

Now, however, she knows the truth. Rhea was right. This is how it was always going to be.

Edelgard screams again. Aymr glints a sinister red as she hefts the axe and charges. The soldiers who dare stand in her way are bludgeoned into oblivion, the Crest Stone weapon drinking in their lives greedily. She does not even slow for them. 

She does not stop screaming.

By sheer reflex, Byleth manages to block the Emperor’s first blow. Sparks fly as Aymr crashes into the Sword of the Creator, and the impact sends reverberations up her whole arm. She leaps back as Edelgard swings again without pause. The pure, murderous wrath in her face is unlike anything Byleth has ever seen. 

“Edelgard!” It is a lost cause, but she has to try. Edelgard bares her teeth in a wolf snarl and lunges once more, lowering her head as if she would like nothing more than to gore Byleth to death with the horns upon her crown. Her fury lends her unearthly speed, but it also makes her sloppy, and Byleth is able to dodge her attack. 

“Edelgard, please! Stop! I’m sorry, but Hubert-”

“ _Don’t you dare say his name!_ ” Edelgard rushes at her and thrusts her shield forward like a battering ram. This time, Byleth is not so lucky. It catches her in the shoulder, knocking her to the ground. She rolls out of the way as Aymr crashes through the cobblestone next to her, but when Edelgard raises the axe once more, she knows it is her end.

_Wham._

She expects her skull to split open, but instead, the bone-white head of the weapon stops a scant few inches from her chest. Edelgard reels and backs away from the barrier that has appeared before her and glares up at the intruder. Byleth looks behind her as well and sees Rhea standing there, her hands still smoking from the magic. 

“That’s enough.” Rhea’s tone is one of disdain. “You’ve lost.”

Byleth gets to her feet with dread as Edelgard glances between them, realization dawning. “You… and her?” she croaks, her throat raw and hoarse. “This whole time?”

Rhea nods, and the corners of her mouth lift in a mocking smile. “From the very start.” 

Her gaze jumps to Byleth, seeking confirmation. When she finds the truth in Byleth’s guilty expression, she stumbles back and sinks to her knees, stricken. 

Rhea approaches her. “Lay down your weapon, child. I may yet let you live.”

An unnatural wind kicks up, circling Edelgard and stirring the dust by her greaves. Byleth hears the clink of metal as the Emperor tightens her armored fists upon her axe and shield. When she lifts her chin, there is a new, crazed gleam in her eyes.

Rhea curses under her breath, soft and low. “No, you wouldn’t…” she says, but the Crest Stone in Aymr begins to glow with increased vigor. She puts a hand upon Byleth’s shoulder and starts to drag her away. 

“W-What’s going on?”

Energy crackles through the air. Edelgard rises slowly and throws her arms out, leaning back. Shouts of alarm come from all around them as the wind grows stronger.

“She’s overloading the Crests inside her. On purpose. We must go while we still can.” 

“But-”

An overwhelming pressure fills the atmosphere. Every hair on Byleth’s body stands on end. Some primal instinct shrieks at her to run, to flee, to hide. Edelgard seems to distort before them. Petrified, Byleth can only watch in horror. 

The sound of wings overhead breaks the trance. A pegasus lands next to them in a flurry of feathers, and from its back, Flayn stretches out her hand.

“Hurry, Archbishop!”

They both clamber onto the beast. It flaps once, twice, trying to break free from the gusts now buffetting them, then manages to find purchase. Even as they lift up, Byleth can hear Edelgard laughing maniacally. Unable to help herself, she looks down at her former student - and finds her staring back.

“I’ll kill you,” Edelgard hisses, and her voice is unrecognizable. “I’ll kill you all!”

“Hold on!” Flayn calls, and her pegasus beats at the air with a renewed urgency. They shoot upward just as Edelgard bursts into flames. Soldiers from both armies howl in fear and pain as they are engulfed by the conflagration. Byleth is forced to avert her gaze from the blinding light. The wind whips at her hair and skin as they pull away, singed but alive.

When they are further from Garreg Mach, Byleth finally has the nerve to peer behind her. A colossal, alien figure towers over the ruined walls of the fortress, while above it, a familiar sigil blazes in the sky.

 _Oh Edelgard, what have you done?_

She sees the Crest of Flames burning against her eyelids long after she has closed them.

 **Garreg Mach in the distance is a dark inkblot upon the grey and forbidding horizon.** Byleth turns back to view it as their small entourage rides away, her spine prickling with unease. When she glances at Edelgard keeping pace alongside her, the princess’ face is grim and determined. 

Only a handful of stoic guards accompany them to Enbarr. Even Hubert is absent, though Byleth would wager that he, of all people, knew the true purpose of this trip. Edelgard had been evasive, even as she asked Byleth to come with her, and they had stolen away like thieves under the cover of night. 

They ride hard and fast, barely stopping to let the horses rest. Enbarr lies far south of the monastery, and they must push hard if they are to make it back in time for the ceremony of the Holy Tomb. The urgency weighs down upon them immensely, and so it is a mostly silent journey. Byleth is ever more aware that this is not some family courtesy call or routine visit to the capital of the Empire. Several times she considers asking Edelgard for more details, but in the end, she stays quiet out of respect for her student’s wishes. She’ll find out eventually.

They reach Enbarr in three days, just when Byleth is starting second-guess her agreement to come. Her suspicions deepen when they are whisked through the side entrance into the massive Adrestian castle that houses the Empire’s royalty, rather than entering through the main gate. 

Despite the late hour, they are not shown to their rooms or invited to refresh themselves. Instead, nervous servants usher them through a series of winding passages that weave in and through the stronghold walls. Byleth has never been one to worry, but now her pulse quickens as she contemplates what awaits them at the end of their mad dash. Edelgard is the sole living daughter of the Emperor. There should be no reason to keep their presence a secret - unless what they were about to do was something the Adrestian nobles would oppose. 

They come to an abrupt halt at the end of one final corridor. A soldier standing guard next to a nondescript door snaps to attention when he spots them. 

“You Highness,” he salutes. 

Edelgard wastes no time. “Have the preparations been completed?” 

“Yes. He is waiting for you.” The soldier pulls open the door. When they step through, Byleth is startled to find that they are standing in a huge hall decked wall to wall with the blood-red banners of the Adrestian Empire. On the far side are grand double doors flanked by an array of knights. It only takes Byleth a few seconds to realize that the throne room must lie on the other side of them. She understands then that they are here to see the Emperor himself. She turns to Edelgard, her eyes growing large, and the white-haired girl appraises her with solemn apprehension.

“I’m sorry I was not more forthcoming, Professor. Important things are happening tonight, things that perhaps you would have preferred not to be part of.” When the knights pound their spears against the floor in unison and the doors begin to swing open, she lowers her voice and speaks more quickly. “I do not want you to think I only brought you here to use you. It means much to me personally that you, of all people, are here. Under different circumstances, I-”

The herald’s ringing voice interrupts her. “Announcing Her Highness, the crown princess Edelgard von Hresvelg!” Edelgard’s face blanks, and when she straightens up, all remaining traces of the serious, yet earnest school girl Byleth has gotten to know are gone. The sole heir to the Hresvelg lineage stands before her, her expression haughty and regal and distant. Byleth steels herself and faces forward as well, and they advance as one.

Ionius von Hresvelg IX, the Adrestian Emperor, sits upon the scarlet throne, a massive rendition of the double-headed eagle of the Hresvelg family crest emblazoned in gold on the wall behind him. His back is bent with age, his hair white and his features lined. Yet, when he lifts his heavy head to gaze upon his daughter, life seems to spring into his grey eyes.

“Edelgard,” he says, in a whisper that somehow echoes across the hall. “My child. You’ve come.” 

“Yes, Father. I’m here.” She takes a knee and crosses her arm over her chest, the perfect image of a dutiful princess.

Ionius coughs, hacking and dry. When his shoulders finish shaking he gestures at her. “Rise, Edelgard. Let me see your face.” She stands up, a slight twist in her mouth betraying concern. “Ah, as beautiful as your mother was. Now, tell me why you are here.”

She squares her shoulders, and when she answers, her voice is clear and devoid of hesitation. “Emperor Ionius von Hresvelg IX, beloved ruler of Adrestia. For years you have led our country with a gentle hand, guiding its citizens upon a righteous path to the best of your ability, despite the many obstacles placed by those who would watch you fall. 

“I come to you today, as your successor and heir, to ask that you relinquish the throne to me and crown me as Adrestia’s new Emperor.”

The Emperor does not seem surprised by this revelation - indeed, he had most likely only asked according to ceremony - but shock grips Byleth’s chest like an icy vice. She understands now why this whole operation has been so clandestine. Edelgard had never told her the full details, but she is aware that there is a power struggle among the Adrestian nobles, as well as between the Church and Adrestia itself. 

“To complete the Imperial succession,” Edelgard continues, “you must relinquish your crown here in the throne room. The archbishop of the Church of Seiros would normally act as witness, but my professor will fill that role instead.” Byleth blinks at the reference to herself. The final puzzle pieces fall into place. As part of the faculty of Garreg Mach, her presence legitimizes Edelgard’s claim. That’s why she’s here. 

Ionius struggles to his feet, his breathing labored. He coughs once more to clear his throat, then commands, “Approach the throne, Edelgard von Hresvelg.” She steps forward, then kneels before her father. With shaking hands, he removes the golden crown from his head and gently places it on his daughter’s. “The crown is yours. By the covenant between the red blood and the white sword, and by the double-headed eagle upon your head, I hereby pronounce you the new emperor. Are you prepared to take those responsibilities as your own?”

Edelgard rises, swaying with the unfamiliar weight of the crown. “I shall use my reign to lead Fodlan to a new dawn and achieve peace for all.” 

In her voice is the sound of truth and power. When she turns to face the audience, Byleth sees the determination burning in her eyes. 

She allows herself to imagine, just for a moment, Edelgard’s vision for the world. A world of justice and peace, where people are not held hostage to the Crests system, and children are not tortured in the name of science. She is almost frightened by how much she wants to see it. 

And suddenly, she is glad that she came, if only to see Edelgard standing tall in all her glory, lit by the brilliant flames of hope and resolve. 

The way back is much easier. After taking care of a few matters, including dismissing the Prime Minister, Duke Aegir, Edelgard simply commands the most powerful court gremories to teleport them to a town not far from Garreg Mach, where horses have already been prepared. They make it back to the monastery just as the orange fingers of dawn begin to brush at the horizon. They don’t even have time to rest. There are too many preparations that need to be completed. In just another few hours, they are due at the Ceremony of the Holy Tomb. 

“Professor!” Edelgard calls out to her just as they are about to part ways. “Thank you for staying by my side.”

Byleth nods at her. She doesn’t expect Edelgard to say any more, but the other girl bites her lip.

“Now that I am emperor,” she adds, “it’s time to grasp my destiny. After the ceremony at the Holy Tomb, I must return to Enbarr. This may be the last we see of each other.”

Byleth is used to goodbyes. A mercenary has no permanent attachments because she knows that every day is either her last or someone else’s. She’s prepared, too, for the eventual goodbyes she must face as a teacher when her students graduate and return to their respective parts of the world. 

But Edelgard’s expression at that moment is so melancholy and full of longing that Byleth has to wonder why this particular goodbye feels so final. She searches for the words to ease that look of pain.

“You will always be welcome here. And the friends you made will not forget you, even when you are far away in the Capital.”

Edelgard’s smile is unexpectedly bitter. “Forget me, they may not, but I do not think I will be welcome.”

Byleth tilts her head. She scrutinizes Edelgard more carefully, trying to read the message behind her cryptic remark. The new Adrestian Emperor gazes back at her.

“Edelgard…” Byleth swallows. “What are you planning?”

Edelgard wavers, then, just for a second. Her lips tremble, then part. She takes a deep breath.

_Bong. Bong. Bong._

The monastery bells begin tolling the hour, interrupting whatever Edelgard was about to say. She closes her mouth abruptly, looking up at the stone ceiling as if she can see through it. When she looks back at Byleth, she is composed once more. 

“Thank you again for assisting me. You should rest before the ceremony tonight, if you can.” 

“Edelgard-” Byleth starts, but the daughter of Hresvelg shakes her head.

“We are out of time, my teacher.” She turns so that her back is to Byleth. “Everyone is waiting for us. We must go.”

And with that, Edelgard von Hresvelg, Emperor of Adrestia, leaves. 

**Garreg Mach is in flames.**

Sweat drips down Byleth’s forehead and stings at her eyes. She does not dare to wipe it away; she just grips the Sword of the Creator more tightly, praying for strength from a Goddess she doesn’t even believe in.

“Do it, Hegemon Husk,” hisses the man formerly known as Lord Arundel. Dark magic layers his voice. “Fulfill your destiny.”

Claude delivers a kick to his abdomen, leaving him gasping for breath. “Be quiet, you.” The golden prince of the Alliance had insisted on accompanying Byleth to the monastery, declaring that if Hubert had been desperate enough to send him a posthumous letter for help, he was obliged to follow through. Now that his forces have subdued the minions of Those Who Slither in the Dark and captured their leader, Byleth is grateful that he came. 

The young man gives her a warning glance over his shoulder. “Professor... There’s no other way. You need to take her down.” 

Byleth swallows and looks up. Edelgard looms over her, but it is not the Edelgard she once knew. The grotesque being before her has an ashen face only vaguely reminiscent of the Adrestian Emperor. It hovers several feet above the ground, the tips of the great tarred wings upon its back almost brushing the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. Inky scales cover its entire body like a shifting suit of armor.

“Edelgard,” she calls out. “Please, stop. This isn’t what you wanted!” 

The Hegemon Husk extends one stretched, deformed arm and lashes out at her. She rolls out of the way, dodging the attack, but the impact of Edelgard’s fist against the stone floor sends a powerful shake through the whole building.

From the corner where he lays bound in chains, Thales wheezes in laughter. 

“Your efforts are futile, Fell Star,” he gloats. “She is beyond reason, now. After all these years of toil, she is finally the perfect weapon…”

The monster spreads its elongated fingers and gathers energy into its palm. It tilts its head, almost curiously, then unleashes the spell. Byleth barely has enough time to swing her sword up and block it, but it still sends her flying. She grunts in pained shock as she is flung into a nearby wall, and something - most likely a rib - cracks inside her. 

Wincing, she manages to stand once more. The Sword of the Creator flares with a brilliant light as she clutches it with both hands and turns to face Edelgard once more. 

“I know you’re still in there, Edelgard,” she shouts, gritting her teeth against the jagged knife of pain that slices through her. “Please, answer me.”

The Husk sets the burning coals of its eyes upon Byleth. Its mouth gapes open. When it speaks, its voice echoes with the shrieks of a hundred damned souls.

“ _You have taken everything from me._ ” 

The world revolts against the very sound of its speech. Glass shatters. The surviving pews go up in a blazing inferno. Smoke fills the room. Byleth coughs and spits out the ash coating her tongue.

“I just didn’t want any more people to die!”

Edelgard takes another swipe at her, knocking aside an altar as easily as if it were made of paper. “ _I trusted you. And you betrayed me._ ”

“Because it wasn’t the right way!” She leaps back as a portion of burning scaffolding tumbles down from above. “Going to war would never have set things right. It only leads to more destruction!”

“ _Silence!_ ” In rage, the Hegemon Husk flaps its enormous wings, sending a maelstrom sweeping through the church. Claude, standing guard over Thales, yelps and throws his arms up to protect himself.

“Byleth! The whole building is going to go down if you don’t do something!”

“I know, I know!” Byleth ducks out from behind the pillar she took refuge under. She hears Claude groan as she rushes out to stand directly in front of the crazed Emperor, but she ignores him. 

“You can still stop! It doesn’t have to be like this!” She braces herself against another gust of wind, hardly noticing the chips of wood and glass that pelt her skin, drawing blood in some places. Edelgard, perhaps surprised by her bold confrontation, pauses, and Byleth takes one last, desperate opportunity to make her case.

“I know what kind of world you’ve been dreaming of. And even if I wasn’t on your side, I never stopped believing in it.” She holds out a beseeching hand, willing Edelgard to hear her. “We can work together. There’s still time.”

At that, the black and charred lips of the Hegemon Husk pull into a sad smile. For just a moment, the Edelgard she remembers shines through that inhuman mask. For a precious few seconds, Byleth can recognize the girl who took tea with her, who listened so intently to her every word, who danced with her at the top of the Goddess Tower beneath the silver moon. 

“I told you long ago, my teacher,” she says. “We are out of time.”

The face of the Husk changes. Its sunken pupils blaze red and emotionless. Its wings flap once more, and as it rises, it lifts its arms. Tendrils of dark energy swirl around it like a gathering storm. 

“ _I will bury you_.” The air sizzles with the might of its curse. “ _I will trample the past underfoot and carve a brighter tomorrow_.”

Byleth closes her eyes. She plants her feet firmly against the ground and readies her weapon. Taking a deep breath, she taps into the strength of the Progenitor God Sothis and draws it forth, channeling it through her veins. 

_I’m sorry, El_.

The Hegemon Husk screeches and dives forward, hands outstretched. Just before its magic can touch her, Byleth’s eyes snap open and she swings the Sword of the Creator upward. It flares a brilliant white as she unleashes the full force of its power. The whole world is bathed in a blinding and unrelenting light. 

The roaring wind dissipates. The fires die, leaving a strange coldness behind. 

When the swirling chaos clears, the Hegemon Husk is no more. It crumbles away, the scales dissipating like so much dust. A young woman’s body, clad in the scarlet regalia of the Adrestian Empire, emerges from the shell of its enormous remains. She stays suspended in the air until the last remnants of the monster have disappeared. Then, she plummets to the ground. 

Though her bones ache in protest, Byleth sheaths her sword and dives forward. She manages to catch the woman in her arms before the both of them hit the stones with a painful thud. 

“Edelgard,” she mouths. She’s not sure if she actually says it aloud. “Edelgard.”

Impossibly, Edelgard’s eyelids flutter. She wakes gradually, and when she sees Byleth’s face hovering above her own, her expression softens.

“Byleth…”

Byleth shifts her hold on the other girl’s torso so that she can support her neck with the crook of her elbow. “It’s okay,” she begins to say, but Edelgard interrupts her.

“Dorothea, Petra, Ferdinand and the others… are they alright?”

Horrified by Edelgard’s transformation and the destruction it wrought, her surviving vassals had fled the monastery and surrendered themselves to the Church. Byleth had made sure that no harm would come to them.

“Yes. They’re fine.”

The tension leaves her shoulders. “Good…” Her eyes soften as she gazes at Byleth. “It seems my path must end here.”

Byleth shakes her head. “No. It’s finished. I won’t let Rhea touch you. We can start over. We can do it the right way.”

Edelgard smiles. She raises one arm and cups the tactician’s cheek tenderly. “A beautiful fantasy… But it is impossible.” Her palm moves to the center of her chest and presses down. “Even now, I can feel my Crests rebelling against me. The strain was too much… It’s only a matter of time before I turn into a Demonic Beast.”

Byleth’s blood runs cold. “No, it can’t be!” But the truth is cruel and unyielding. Edelgard does not even bother trying to convince her. She doesn’t have to.

“Deep down, you always knew. Your path lies across my grave... “ She places her hand on the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. “It is time for you to find the courage to walk it.”

Byleth has no chance to protest further. The sound of footsteps makes her lift her chin, and there is Claude, his expression awkward and sheepish.

“Hey, Teach… Rhea’s entourage is on its way. I can hear the horses.”

They are out of time. 

Byleth can hear them as well now. Edelgard looks up at her in supplication. She must know what fate she will meet if Rhea finds her.

“If I must fall,” she says, “let it be by your hand.”

Byleth inhales, then exhales slowly. She turns to Claude. Luckily, he understands.

“I’ll… keep them busy. As long as I can.” He backs away, leaving the two of them alone.

She helps Edelgard upright before getting to her feet. The Emperor remains upon her knees, staring up at Byleth. Byleth unsheathes her sword and levels it at the woman before her with trembling hands. 

“I won’t let this be for nothing,” she finds herself promising. “I’ll make sure your dream comes true.”

Edelgard nods. “I believe you.”

Her face is serene. There is no anger, no fear, no accusation in those features that Byleth has come to treasure. There is only the slightest hint of regret as Byleth draws back her blade. 

“I wanted... to walk with you…”

Byleth thrusts the Sword of the Creator clean through her breastplate. 

Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg falls silent for the last time. 

Byleth does not notice when Rhea and Claude enter the ruined cathedral. She only vaguely registers the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard and a thump as something heavy and wet hits the ground. Claude swears explosively, but Rhea dismisses his concerns.

“Opponents of the Church will be executed without mercy. And this… Thales creature… is an older nemesis than you will ever know. Speaking of...”

There is the clack of heels against the broken stone tiles as the Archbishop approaches. 

“So… she is dead.” Byleth raises her head and looks at Rhea with unseeing eyes. Rhea steps back, a little startled. “Are you _crying_ , Byleth?”

Byleth touches her cheek. Her fingers come away wet. She gets to her feet - she had not even known she was kneeling - and wipes the tears away. She gazes down at the oddly peaceful body of Edelgard. If not for the blood seeping through the rent in her armor, she might have been sleeping.

“I always knew you would do what was necessary,” Rhea is saying. For once, she seems pleased. “Come. There is more work to do. We will flush out the rest of the Agarthans - our mortal enemies - and cleanse Fodlan of evil. We will bring a new dawn to this land.” She turns to leave, not even waiting for Byleth to follow. 

“No.”

The Archbishop halts in her tracks and pivots. Disbelief is written all over her features. “What did you just say?”

Byleth stands straighter and locks eyes with her. “I will not work with you a moment longer.” She makes sure to enunciate clearly, so that there is no confusion.

Rhea falters, then plasters on an ingratiating smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Byleth. Think of all that we could do together. You could bend the world to your will. You could bring real peace to the nation, by my side at the head of the Church. Why, you could even fulfill Edelgard’s misguided goals.”

“I will,” Byleth says coldly. “But I don’t need you. I’ll make my own path - one you are not welcome to tread upon.”

The Archbishop’s mask slips. Her lips pull back in a sneer and she takes one step closer. “Listen here, you ungrateful whelp. My Mother-”

The Sword of the Creator is in Byleth’s hands before anyone can blink. She points it straight at Rhea, who recoils.

“Is gone,” Byleth finishes for her. “What is left of the Progenitor God’s power lives on inside me. I will choose how it is wielded.”

She slips the sword back into its sheath and brushes past the woman who has controlled and manipulated her since her very birth.

“Goodbye, Archbishop.”

No one stops her from leaving. She walks out into the blackened ruins of Garreg Mach and looks up at the storm-tossed sky. The rain upon her skin is cool and soothing. 

Byleth Eisner takes a deep breath and strides out into the indifferent world, free for the first time in her life. 

**Garreg Mach Monastery is no more.**

Only broken walls and moss-covered cobblestone mark the proud stronghold that once housed the Church of Seiros. After the Great Imperial War, it had been deemed too damaged to restore. Its treasures moved and its halls abandoned, it gradually faded from memory until it was nothing more than an interesting entry in a history book. 200 years of neglect has rendered even its general layout unrecognizable. Its remnants slumber upon a quiet, grassy hill, disturbed by only wind and the tracks of inquisitive animals seeking shelter.

Two white headstones still stand erect among the rubble. A casual passerby - if anyone would bother venturing out so far - might observe their preserved state, so at odds with the rest of their surroundings, and find it strange. Their engravings have long been worn away, but otherwise, they remain intact.

Byleth often stops by this peaceful knoll in between her solitary travels. Her boots are stained and dusty from the road, her cape ragged and full of holes. Yet, no lines or wrinkles have appeared upon her face, and her head does not sport a single white hair. She looks exactly the same as she did the night she walked away from Garreg Mach so long ago, but now, there is no one alive to remember her. Rhea had done well in scrubbing her from the memory of the people of Fodlan. She is a ghost unburdened by time.

She crouches down before the graves and brushes away at the detritus that litters them. The sun shines bright and warm in the cloudless and perfect sky.

“Mother, Father. I’ve come to visit. Are you well?”

The only reply she receives is the twittering of some nearby birds. She shifts into a more comfortable position upon the grass and closes her eyes, gathering her thoughts.

“The Archbishop has taken on another name again. You would think that someone would recognize her from the statues and paintings made in her honor but…” She shrugs. “The past has always been mutable, I suppose.”

After she parted ways with the Church, Byleth had drifted across the continent, no more than a lost wraith. For the first few years, she had roamed aimlessly, seeking and feeling nothing. In the end however, she remembered the promise she had made that fateful night in the cathedral. With a resigned sense of duty, she began walking among the lives of Fodlan’s inhabitants once more. She listened and watched and intervened when she felt necessary. She could not topple a cruel regime or expose a corrupted noble all alone, but she could try to sow the seeds of justice among the poor and the suffering.

Over the decades, she has seen castles fall and peasants become kings. And through it all, her body does not age a single day.

“I don’t know if I’m doing enough,” Byleth tells the tombstones. “Change is slow. Progress can be reversed.” A rueful quirk of her mouth. “Honestly, I have a feeling she would be rather disappointed with me if she could see me.”

A faint breeze sends ripples across the green plain, bringing with it a smell of citrus and sunlight. The image of a similar day, a similar scene, passes through of Byleth’s mind. The taste of the memory is bittersweet upon her tongue. She sighs and looks up, her gaze landing upon the skeletal remains of a lilting tower she once danced in. 

“I sometimes wonder,” she says aloud, “if I chose wrongly after all. True, the Empire’s losses meant the war was mostly contained in Enbarr and its surrounding territory. A great many lives were spared from ever seeing battle. And yet… I can’t help but think there might have been some other way. That if I had just followed another path, my future would have been different. That if I could just go back...”

She closes her eyes and indulges in the pleasant dream of bygone possibilities. For awhile, she allows herself to imagine a world in which she no longer has to wander. 

Then, she shakes her head. She regards the graves before her once more and fondly touches the sun-drenched granite. 

“But there is no going back. You taught me that. Both of you.”

She rises to her feet, shaking off the stray blades of grass that cling to her clothes.

“You can only go forward.”

When she is walking back to her mount through the former grounds of the monastery, a flash of crimson catches her eye, making her pause. It is, of all things, a rose. The flowers from Garreg Mach’s gardens that didn’t perish had all mixed with the local flora ages ago, but even now, this particular specimen still maintains a brilliant red hue.

Without thinking, Byleth stoops and plucks it from its stem. When she puts it to her nose and inhales, its scent is sweet and nostalgic and forgiving. 

She smiles and straightens, tucking the rose into her breast pocket. She turns her head, surveying the grounds of the former monastery once more, and places a fist over her heart.

It does not beat. And it never will.

**Author's Note:**

> Chronology:  
> \- Garreg Mach in bloom  
> \- Garreg Mach in the afternoon  
> \- Garreg Mach in slumber  
> \- Garreg Mach in revelry  
> \- Garreg Mach in the distance  
> \- Garreg Mach under siege (corresponds to Ch. 12 Outset Of A Power Struggle)  
> \- Garreg Mach in ruins  
> \- Garreg Mach at night  
> \- Garreg Mach in broad daylight  
> \- Garreg Mach in darkness  
> \- Garreg Mach in defeat  
> \- Garreg Mach at war  
> \- Garreg Mach is in flames  
> \- Garreg Mach Monastery is no more
> 
> This fic would not have been possible without my two beta readers, AO3 users korewa and karples. Thank you both for taking the time and effort to help me improve.
> 
> Alternate ending to this fic:  
> Byleth stands straighter and locks eyes with Rhea. “I will not work with you a moment longer.” She makes sure to enunciate clearly, so that there is no confusion.  
> "I understand." Rhea turns to leave, revealing her dummy thicc ass.  
> "On second thought-" Byleth says.


End file.
